Special People

Poppy’s wheelbarrow

 

 

“The Farm” served as a refuge from the near-total boring realities of town-life, save sand lot baseball. Oh1 True enough. The stores, such as they were, happened to be convenient along with the church and school which provided adequate entertainment and distraction with a ball diamond and basketball courts. The cops, both of them, knew all the kids by name.

Unfortunately, so did nearly each member of the little farming community agri-opolis. That reality meant that if, or, more accurately, when, one transgressed the straight and narrow rules of 1950’s and 60’s America, it would be only a matter of a few purposeful phone calls “intended” not to be tattle-tailing on the miscreant, but, rather, to serve as an automatic indictment of the errant talents of the parents’ questionable child rearing abilities. Many times, such “jungle drum” news-action occurred over the backyard fence. By the time Dad got home from slaving at some job, somewhere, the “felon”-kid had already suffered “cruel and unusual” punishment at the hands of a mother intent on harping on the “sin” as though it was as bad as shooting the President. Threats of horrid punishment hailed like ice stones in a green-sky thunderstorm.

In the end, when dad had been properly apprised of the mis-deed, the reprimand might have been as slight as a verbal sermon with threats of annihilation for future repeated like-minded infractions to as severe as the sting of the raw leather belt being harshly employed. That one such as I had experienced each, along with many variant degrees within the latitude, goes without saying. Fortunately, the few “caught” offenses pale in comparison to the myriad abominations I managed to shroud. A kid’s commandment credo: Don’t get caught! I reverenced that rule.

“The Farm” offered everything a curious boy desired. The great-grandparents and the grandparents lived there, a delightful treat in, and of, itself. These were great people who respected each on their own merits, never looked down or talked down to one because of age or gender, found “Good” in their life and times, honored God and His created space. Love flourished. This was as much “home” as the house in town where I resided with my immediate family. I was welcome here and I knew it and appreciated the sentiment.

“Poppy”, my grandpa, and I were special friends; not in any manner spoken of made obvious; more like a kindred-spirit revelation between the two of us. He was a superior independent individual as were the other family members; Poppy and I seemed to have a unique relationship.

I loved each of these “saintly” people and they all did special things for and with each of the kids; he just did more with me, maybe because I was the oldest of the grandkid clan.

When I was four or five, I gravitated to Poppy on my many visits to the farm. He had an old, rusty, iron wheelbarrow he used to haul water in buckets to the hogs out back of the barn. I delighted in riding in the rusted pan of the contraption. The old iron wheel had rubbed against the bottom of the pan and worn a hole. I was always very careful to straddle that hole as the old rusty wheel seemed to just be waiting for a city-slicker kid to make a mistake. It never got me.

I did not wonder why they failed to repair the hole or get a new conveyance; this was a “make-do” generation who valued whatever they had, appreciated it, made it last. I savor those ideals and the sacred memories of that generation; hopefully, I learned a thing or two from them.

Today, a damaged item might be casually discarded and replaced with a new one. Easy!?

Personally, I am happy that my “angels” made-do as best they could. I happen to agree.

Maybe that’s why I am un-cool and un-hip in the modern world lexicon of faux ideals.

Thank you! I celebrate honoring “Independent individualism” by emulating my “saints”.

I wish Poppy could give me a ride in that old wheelbarrow today. I’d jump right in. Amen!